Eyes
by VickyVicarious
Summary: Ryan is upset about something, and all Seth wants is to make it better. Oh, and for him not to leave. Seth/Ryan


And it's because his eyes are paper-thin right now, vulnerable and reflective and bright, not strong like always before; open in a way you'd never hoped he'd be. Before, it was always you doing the talking, because that's just who you are, or maybe not; maybe you didn't start out that way, maybe it was just a way to fill the silence that came from having no one else around to make any sound – because as good as Captain Oats is, he never was much of a talker (probably a good thing, or else you'd be sitting in nice padded cell about now) – you don't know or remember because as far as you know, it's always been this way. But Ryan has always gotten that, and, better, he doesn't mind listening. You're not always sure he's paying attention to you as you prattle on – because if anyone can prattle, it's you – but then he always manages to surprise you, say something that gets you going again, delighted because he really _is_ listening to you like always, because he never lets you fade into the background, and that is a first in your life. Ryan's a great listener.

Sometimes, late at night, you have wondered if Ryan was always this quiet, or if not; if silence was instilled in him much the way babble might have been instilled into you: yours to fill the throbbing quiet, and his, maybe, another of those memories that make his eyes go soft and bruised, focusing down; his silence, the product of a little kid that grew up with smoke in the air and glass bottles in the fridge, a little kid whose mother smelled of foreign substances and yelled at him when she was drunk or high and ignored him when she wasn't, a little kid whose father was never there, replaced by faceless men cycling in and out, each one an AJ, and the little kid maybe wanted to talk but never did, because talking got their attention and when his older brother wasn't around to protect him, which started happening more and more often, getting AJ's attention meant bruises and blood and crying into his pillow at night.

You think that even if it's so, Ryan won't know, just like you don't. It's been so long that no matter what it might have maybe been like once, before your own separate hardships changed it up, neither one of you remember; just the way it is now.

Now, at least, as in _up to_, because at this very moment, even though Ryan's being as silent as ever, it's not the normal type, and the distance of your silence to the norm is as the distance from Pluto to the sun. But despite you knowing that, you can't seem to break it, and you don't even know what's wrong anyway, just that his _eyes_… and he's just sitting there, and even through all of everything that he's been through here, you've never thought you might break him if you touch him.

You do now.

He averts his gaze suddenly, the gaze that's always been able to say as much in two seconds as you can babble circles around in two hours, pointing it at the sand beneath him, and you desperately want to ask what's wrong, to talk about anything, even if it's extremely inappropriate, because that's what Cohens do, but your tongue is glued to the roof of your mouth.

Your tongue might be frozen for the first time in your life, but the rest of you isn't, and you slowly lower yourself next to him, cautious like the tiniest wrong move will scare him off, because that's always been your biggest fear. Fear that he's going to leave, the best thing in your life is going to leave you forever, just walk out like he was never even there, and you don't think that even leaving Newport will be enough for you next time, nothing will be, not unless you can follow him, which you know you would, even if you and Summer were back together again (which you're not) or if everyone who ever peed in your shoes and called you names your whole life suddenly wanted to be your best friend. You'd still be out of here in an instant, trading all the adoration in the world for Ryan rolling his eyes and shoving you in the shoulder when you say something annoying, always leaving a bruise that you don't mention because he's Kid Chino, of course he doesn't know his own strength. Also, if you told, he'd just feel guilty and stop, and pain or no, it's just become another one of those affirming things, bittersweet but if you lost it you would die. If you lost him you would die.

You're afraid of death now, hesitantly settling into the sand next to the boy that's given you all you ever dreamed of just by being here, who is currently staring down, fingers combing the sand, blue eyes staring away from you, saying all words can't express.

Ryan licks his lips, and the surf crashes in, the tide rising. Neither of you speak still, even though the silence is just as oppressive as it always was to you, pressing in all around, making you lightheaded and dizzy, wishing for music, something, anything to fill it, and you'd usually have said something long before now.

Ryan picks up a handful of sand, and lets it trickle down through his fingers, watching it fall; after it's all gone, he glances up at you, eyes past bruised now, open and laid bare. Somehow, after all he's been through, all his scars, Ryan can still feel this deeply, down to the marrow of his bones, and you are suddenly positive that he's never felt anything _good_ like he feels this.

That's why. That's why it happens.

He's wearing his hoodie and wifebeater, leaving clothes, and he's looking broken as he's ever been; you're simultaneously convinced he's leaving and he's alone, and you can't stand it, you _can't_.

You reach forward, first with one hand, catching his open one, still floating above the sand, squeezing tight like he might melt away, and his _eyes_ are lost, empty, and you want to just fill them up with good, pour yourself into them, into Ryan, until you're the one who's going to need the comforting, and he'll be strong enough to do it like he always does.

First the hand, and then you're suddenly shoving, leaning over him, his head hitting the sand, his other arm flopping away surprised, you over him, crashing down with the next wave, lips meeting his.

It wasn't planned, wasn't even considered before this moment, but that doesn't matter, because this is the way to do it, to fill up the emptiness in Ryan. You want him to be so happy that he's laughing out loud for no reason at all, and somehow that translates to kissing him, hard and clumsy, closed lips pressing down with no rhyme or reason, hand reaching up to hold him, hard, fingers in his hair, palm on his cheek.

You don't know how long it is, but he doesn't respond until he pulls away, and you've gotten nowhere except a heart that's pounding out of your ribs and a completely inappropriate hard-on.

He stares up at you, and you can't seem to focus this time, no more plans on what to do, not even a brief moment of the earlier fear. You're too caught up in suddenly how blue his eyes are, his hair soft around your fingers, gritty sand mixed into it; his body beneath yours, a direct result of your clumsy tumble, like a line of fire searing your skin, stopping your breath and you just want _closer_.

And then another second passes, him just staring up at you, eyes not empty now but shocked, completely still under you, mouth just slightly open, and that registers as a bad thing, not anything you want to lean forward and press your own mouth to, you don't want to smooth your hand down the soft skin of his cheek, you don't want to move closer and closer until no one could even tell you apart.

You leap back, tripping and splashing down into the water that's crept up behind you, falling on your butt and yelping in pain, the first sound that's escaped your mouth since you left the party and found him sitting here in the moonlight, staring out to sea.

Your head falls back, too, and now the water is lapping around it, probably ruining the tie you never wanted to wear, nevermind the fancy suit. Nevermind it, right, and you sit up, mouth working frantically, but he's up all the way now, looming over you on his feet. It's new, because you're taller, but he's still _looming_, you can't even see his face anymore in the dark, and you just _kissed Ryan_. _**Ryan.**_

"Hey – man, I – I didn't – you know, we really shouldn't bother to talk about this because it's clear I didn't mean that to happen, right, that would be kind of like incest or something considering I've called you my brother before, although I could have meant it in that whole black way, you know, growing up in the hood and all, kinda like you, not that Chino's the hood, and even if it kinda is I'm not judging, just, you have to admit that recreationally stealing cars isn't really the sort of thing that gets done other places, so really I guess it – " The words which you couldn't find earlier, couldn't force out for your life, all come out now, as though the kiss broke the dam holding them back, broke that and broke the denial you never knew existed (which you guess now means it was very strong), and Ryan reaches down and tugs you up without preamble, without any dillying or dallying, just deliberate and you have to stop suddenly, stop and smile.

Because he's strong again, in a sort of hurt way, and it means that either he'd going to punch your head off and go to jail for good this time, or he's going to tell you something or maybe even just shove your arm and leave a bruise. But he's not going to break, and not going to leave, you can tell from a two-second glance before he lets go of you, stepping back, ignoring your words to look at the ocean again and say, "My mom's in a coma."

If anything, that's not what you expected, and your lingering erection dies instantly, despite the burning still lingering from where he pulled you up by your arms. You stare in shock, and Ryan swiftly whirls back around to you, half-laughing bitterly, hand running through his hair.

"I just got the call from some hospital in Nevada. I'm her emergency contact. I don't even know her anymore, Seth!" He sinks back to the ground suddenly, hitting the sand hard, and you follow, less hesitant now and more in a stunned daze.

"I never even knew her middle name, you know that? I never even knew what her favorite color was." Ryan snorts. "I knew her favorite brand of _vodka_, though."

You reach out, hesitant again, unbalanced, even more so when Ryan abruptly leans into your arm, turning to face you. You heart speeds up for a second, Cohen as ever, when his face closes in on yours, but he just buries his face in your neck. He's not crying, from what you can tell, just sitting there, pressing his forehead in hard, his hands fisting in the sand.

You bring your arm around his back, and rest your head on his shoulder, too, unable to resist breathing in deeply, still inwardly in shock about that apparently forgotten kiss. Ryan sighs heavily, sagging into you, breathing hard.

It is so very wrong to shiver from his hot breath on your neck, but you do anyway.

Ryan turns his head slightly to the side after a long moment, almost a nuzzle but not quite, then pulls back, eyes closed. "Thanks, man."

You nod. "Hey… No, no problem, man. I mean, I – I'm here for you."

It's inadequate and doesn't come close to what you want him to know you mean, but Ryan squeezes his eyes shut tighter for a moment, then takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. "You want to play Grand Theft Auto in the poolhouse?" he asks, and you nod again.

"Yeah, man. Gotta be better than the party. Besides, Summer's there, and everything's still kinda awkward, you know, what with the dating, and now the not-dating thing, and the rage blackouts – which, quite frankly Ryan, scare me because even though, I know, I know, I'm a man and therefore should be stronger than a short girl like her, she has magical arms, okay? She punches like… like a girl you. Except she also yanks hair. And slaps. And, yeah, I guess you shove and there are times when you can blur the line between the two (shoves and slaps, I mean), but really, I feel like there's a very distinct masculine versus feminine thing going on here. Shoves versus slaps. Beer versus wine. Wifebeaters versus halter-tops. Uhh, and, let's see here, yeah, I think it's fair to add this: you, my good friend, have a six-pack, which, _I know_, girls can get, but Summer does not have, and it isn't the same anyway. It is very nice, as a border, because, you know, you can get away with switching around all of the other stuff sometimes, without switching gender roles or anything. But if Summer develops a six-pack, that's it, she's a man, and that's even more scary."

You were just filling the silence like always, as you stand and start walking back along the shore, because maybe it would be more considerate of you to give him his peace and space, but he hasn't yelled at you yet, and he knows you, he should understand. That look, it's been bleeding out of his eyes this whole time, slowly seeping away to be replaced with something you recognize as – with a leap of joy somewhere in your stomach and also in your chest – amusement. Strength. Ryan – _your_ Ryan if that's not too presumptuous, and even if it is. Your Ryan is coming back.

And you're overjoyed, because whatever you did – shove him down on the sand and kiss him, maybe, and does that mean he liked that? Because he didn't react, and though you never considered it before now, you're beginning to wonder if maybe you aren't kinda gay, and even if you aren't (the thought of Luke certainly doesn't inspire any amorous feelings) then maybe just a little bit Ryented, that is, Ryan-oriented, because just the _thought_ that he might not hate you for that kiss, might even want another one, well, that mere thought is enough to have you breathing faster, tripping on a nonexistent rock in the sand, reaching out to Ryan for support. And isn't it funny, because that really doesn't help at all, with your little 'problem' reawakening as soon as his fingers scrape over yours, heat sparking up your arm – it seems to have had an effect, a good one. Specifically, it appears that you've brought him out of his funk for once, if a scare that bad even qualifies as a mere _funk_, and forget all the new Ryented feelings, just that knowledge is enough to make you want to hug him and never let go.

Not that you will. That would be very minty, possibly even more so than the kiss. Because that at least was all passionate, quick, rough – even rugged, if you daresay. Not to toot your own horn, but – toot, toot – that was a _manly_ kiss, right there. You were on top. And you were the instigator. And you were just very manly, okay?

"No, not all of them," Ryan says, and it takes you a few seconds before you remember what you were talking about. He hasn't let go of your hand, which is very minty but kind of awesome nonetheless.

Right. Guy versus girl… six-packs. Everything else debatable. Right.

"What are you talking about? Yes, all of them, Ryan, I've completely thought this through!"

Ryan gives you a sliding sideways glance, a quick half-smile, and you want to die right there. "Come on, man. Are you honestly trying to tell me that a guy can wear a halter-top?"

You splutter, because he's right: that _was_ on your list, it's the opposite of wifebeater, not that you had anybody particular in mind. But you can't back down now, so as you pass the pool, you say, "Totally! As long as it is the right occasion, and he's very… uh, very confident, a man can wear anything, Ryan."

Ryan stares at you, hand on the poolhouse door. "I think I'll just stick with the wifebeaters," he says, scrunching up his face a little, and opening the door. You grin and nod, and then he reaches out, letting go of your hand, and puts a hand on your back.

He pushes you too hard going inside, and you trip and possibly stub your toe, but you swallow the throbbing pain, and instead limp to sit at the foot of Ryan's bed – oh god, he sleeps here and you _kissed him _and he is naked in this room at times and you _kissed Ryan Atwood_ how are you not dead yet? – catching the controller he throws at you.

When he sits down next to you, bending one knee, stretching the other leg out, like the day he first met you, it's close. Your elbows brush as you play, and when you get excited (as you inevitably do) your entire side crashes into his and you both lean crazily before getting back up straight.

Outside, it gets late and the party winds down, but even though everyone can probably see that the poolhouse lights are on, no one bothers you. You just sit there, playing Grand Theft Auto until your eyes feel like the weights that Ryan says he doesn't lift (but he has to work out _somehow_, right, after all, well, look at him).

And then you play some more, until everything gets kind of fuzzy. You're vaguely aware of Ryan lifting you, muttering something to you that sounds like a sincere, "Thanks, Seth," and that makes you feel guilty, because you should be awake, thanking _him_, helping _him_, not being a dead weight right now.

But you're so tired, and your nose is buried in a pile of pillows on Ryan's bed, and that thought is (maybe not-so-strangely after tonight) comforting, pleasant. You turn your head to the side just enough to blearily catch sight of Ryan, yawning and going over to the couch to lay down, taking a blanket with him, shutting off the lights as he goes.

Satisfied that he's not going to stay awake and brood any more about this right now, you let yourself smile, knowing he won't see it in the dark, facing away from you and all. But you can see him, there, recently kissed by Seth Cohen, and you feel your toe still throbbing painfully and your smile grows.

His hoodie is tossed on the bed, not far from you, and you stretch out a stealthy arm, sliding it back close to you, gripping tightly. If he wants to leave he's going to have to take it, and that will wake you up and you'll just follow him and he won't go then.

You yawn again, same time as Ryan, and close your eyes.


End file.
